


this side of paradise

by eustomas



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, M/M, bc fuck thordan, canon? dont know her, except thordan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-18 22:54:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29497611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eustomas/pseuds/eustomas
Summary: he braces for an attack from behind, a blow he won't be able to dodge in time or a knife in his back and—it never comes.in a moment that lasts too long zephirin turns and sees — a vision in the dark.the third knight’s crumpled body at haurchefant greystone’s feet barely registers as an afterthought.
Relationships: Haurchefant Greystone/Zephirin de Valhourdin
Comments: 9
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> saw a photoset of aymeric and zephirin fateswap, got zephirin brainworms, started writing this, had a breakdown halfway through, bon apetit.

in his memories, his father is distant, away to the farther reaches of the holy see more often than not, but whenever he returns home the fire always feels warmer, the winter a little less biting. he shows zephirin how to wield a sword, teaches him the proper stances and dramatically fakes defeat while zephirin laughs with a joy only children can possess. 

he is a devout man, one who recites his prayers before supper and before sleep; familiar words that zephirin learns to find comfort in as well, rosary in his hands and a quiet murmur on his lips:

_o, halone, hallowed fury, hearken to my prayer—_

his is a good father, until one day he isn't, because he never comes back.

 _a skirmish with the dravanians_ , they tell him as an afterthought, a broken sword and a tattered flag the only thing they leave him with, a boy of fourteen and a half winters in a now empty home.

but his memories of his father are bright, and they are all he has left, so the decision comes easy — the temple knights are not so picky with who they let fight in tournaments when they are always starving for recruits.

zephirin follows after the figure of his father he remembers — a proud knight, unwavering and devout, faith in the fury and in ishgard guiding his steps.

he fights his way to victory with tooth and nail, and at the end he stands there, panting and exhausted, sure of his cause, his path.

righteousness tastes sweet, he decides.

* * *

the training that follows is harsh and unforgiving. 

it demands much of him and of the other recruits, the sharp voices of their commanders barking reprimands like a whip's crack — _you call that a good defense?! the dravanians would have you bleeding in a second! fix that stance, boy, and you, over there—_

there is an ever-present ache in his body that follows him every waking moment of the day; one he owes only partially to the last remnants of his growth spurt and more to the rigorous physical demands of knighthood. it was never going to be easy, of course, so he takes a measure of pride in all the effort to achieve what he has — he's barely beyond his twentieth winter and has already risen high among the ranks, higher than his peers; an outstanding fighter for his stature and age, even if the greatsword he has taken to wielding earns him scornful looks purely by virtue of its association.

zephirin hopes his father finds pride in him too, watching from halone's halls. the thought makes every ache worth it, the honor of being one of ishgard's defenders burning warm within him.

he loves ishgard dearly, the city and all of its people. 

and while they are not perfect, far from it even — there is a countless list of failings and petty squabbles that gets longer with each day — zephirin wishes only for the best for them all. a final end of the dragonsong war, peace and a chance to heal, to rebuild; those are distant goals he would give his life and more to achieve.

saint reymanaud's cathedral is quiet at night, the last sermons having ended bells ago. it remains open to visitors regardless, and zephirin makes something of a habit of visiting whenever he has a free moment to spare from his duties, simply to find peace in the silence of the hallowed halls, to whisper a prayer to the fury in his father's name, to find guidance whenever he faces uncertainty. 

sometimes, however, his thoughts tend to stray too far and time eludes him. 

when zephirin makes his way outside it is beyond dark, the faint streetlight barely enough to see the slick ice on the steps. to his surprise it's not snowing, even with winter having descended upon the city with its typical mercilessness months prior, more biting than he remembers in recent years.

the chill is nothing he is not used to.

his steps are careful as he makes his way down, the cold wind helping him focus. the sky is clear and the moon seems to glow almost ethereally, as if he is in a strange dream. the heavens are dotted with countless stars, shining and beautiful and he— 

stops. takes a deep breath, winter in his lungs, and just looks for the sake of it.

it is a rare sight to see, especially this time of year — a night without the thick cover of clouds, without snow falling and falling without end, until the entire world is nothing but an endless expanse of undisturbed white. moonlight casts everything in monochrome colors and all of ishgard sparkles with it, as if the very stones are made of diamonds.

zephirin does not remember when his feet lead him to the edge of the last vigil, the city spread before him like a miracle. and it is, he thinks with humbled awe. it has withstood a thousand years of war and bloodshed and the harshness of the eternal ice and still, still ishgard stands tall and unwavering, refusing to fall in the face of it all.

resolve has always burned within him, but this sight is something he will remember until his last breath; is what makes it settle like steel along his vertebrae, hardened and enduring.

for the good of ishgard, he will pay any price.

* * *

the irony of it all is this:

zephirin makes an addition to his habit of visiting the cathedral — the vigil is a short walk away and the sense of peace it brings him to gaze at the city from above is something he grows to cherish more and more with each day, as winter worsens and the people’s spirits along with it.

the irony of it is this:

it is his fellow knights — men he has fought alongside with, devout and dedicated, who he has grown to know in their shared duty — it is they who leave him with a split lip and a smattering of bruises along his ribs.

they descend upon him like wraiths before he even makes it to the main square of the vigil, a pair of hands reaching for him from one of the darkened alleys, dragging him in roughly, an arm around his neck meant to _choke,_ and before he can retaliate the breath is knocked out of him, a blow to his stomach making him wheeze in pain _._

“this the brat that’s been giving you so much trouble?” a voice sneers above him.

“bloody whoreson thinks he’s something special, wielding that unsightly sword of his, pretending he’s better than us faithful.” comes the response, full of disdain.

zephirin blinks, trying to reorient himself.

the confusion lasts for barely a moment, adrenaline rushing wild in his ears.

zephirin is _fast_ , used to fighting opponents bigger than he is, and he makes use of this, sneaking a leg between the one holding him, his stance far too wide. zephirin pulls down _hard_ , trying to unbalance his captor. it works, the hold around him loosening just enough for him to slip away, grabbing at the arm still loose around him. he takes hold of it and reaches blindly for the man’s head, shoving with all he has. there is a loud _snap_ , the unmistakable sound of bone shattering as zephirin slams the man’s head against the stone wall.

the victory is short-lived, as two other figures descend upon him mercilessly. he doesn't have time to move out of the way as a fist hits him square in the jaw — he tastes blood in his mouth. zephirin stumbles, dazed, back against the wall for support.

“best fighter in the regimen my arse, making us all look bad,” one of them spits, aiming for zephirin’s ribs next. “bet you his mother was a whore, to conceive a such a runt.”

“probably ran off to join the heretics when she saw him, too.”

zephirin grits his teeth as pain flashes blinding and bright, his breath thin. there's no time to think, barely enough to react as he ducks away from the next blow, dropping low to the ground and sweeping out a leg in the hopes of tripping the one closer to him.

it works.

one of them falls; zephirin throws himself at the one standing, lighting fast, and they both fall to the ground in a heap. zephirin’s fist connects swiftly once, twice, _thrice,_ and he feels it when the second knight goes limp, his body motionless on the frozen ground. 

he allows himself a breath to look at the man under him and then at the other one slumped bloody against the wall, both of them immobilized, before he remembers with dread _three of them_ , and he curses himself for letting his guard down, for such a foolish mistake. he braces for an attack from behind, a blow he won't be able to dodge in time or a knife in his back and—

it never comes.

in a moment that lasts too long zephirin turns and sees—

a vision in the dark.

piercing blue eyes alit, aglow with something ethereal, a halo of silver hair that almost seems to shine in the faint moonlight, a steely expression underneath the messy strands and it clicks an instant later; zephirin _recognizes_ that face—

the third knight’s crumpled body at haurchefant greystone’s feet barely registers as an afterthought.

zephirin openly stares, rising gingerly, one arm around his ribs for support as he sways unsteady on his feet. he doesn't quite relax yet, even if participating in such a lowly act seems far below anything greystone would ever do, from what zephirin knows of him at least. they’ve never really spoken beyond the barest of nods of acknowledgment across the training grounds, but zephirin has heard the rumors, the stories, both the good and the bad. 

“passing strange for an ambush to happen here of all places,” greystone says with feigned nonchalance, as if he’s discussing the weather. “i didn't quite hear what this was all about, but i hope you’re not terribly injured, ser valhourdin?” 

zephirin startles involuntarily at the use of his last name and it jostles his ribs uncomfortably — he can't quite suppress the wince in time. greystone takes a step towards him at that, stepping over the unconscious knight like he’s nothing more than a fallen log, all of his movements clearly telegraphed and not hostile.

“‘tis nothing grievous, i assure you,” zephirin says curtly, something reminiscent of shame bubbling in his chest. he motions to the last knight at the mouth of the alleyway with his head and it makes the world spin for a moment. “i thank you for your assistance in this unfortunate event; you have my apologies for the disturbance. by your leave, i’ll be making my way now.”

“making your—? you're not possibly going to walk halfway across the pillars in the freezing cold in that shape, are you?” the concern in greystone’s voice is almost a physical thing, in a way that makes zephirin reconsider his plan of doing just that. he wonders for a moment how greystone knows that, but the thought disappears when he realizes the other elezen is almost in front of him now, barely a yalm between them.

zephirin blinks, and the next thing he feels is a careful touch on his face, cold fingers tracing along his jaw, brushing gentle across his split lip, checking for injury. 

zephirin freezes.

“fortemps manor is not far at all and it’s _bells_ past midnight, why were you even out here so late,” greystone doesn't exactly phrase it like a question. he doesn't wait for an answer either before he’s got one of zephirin’s arms around his shoulder and is walking them out on the street at a measured pace. “you can stay the night, i'm sure no one would mind. we can tend to your injuries there.”

zephirin follows mutely, and saying no doesn't even occur to him as an option, utterly swept away.

* * *

the high houses zephirin is familiar with, even if it is in a more distant, formal way.

he's no noble born, having had a common enough life to rarely see the upper reaches of the city as a child, now merely passing through on occasion as a knight. but he knows the houses, their manors, their crests, their soldiers and servants; as does every other ishgardian.

he's wondered, sometimes, what splendor must hide underneath the towering stone facades, what it is that dictates what the nobles get and what the commoners don't.

the white marble flooring, the lengthy rugs, the crystal glass chandeliers and the extravagant flower arrangements — it all makes for a perfect picture of wealth, a display merely to show status for the sake of it. somehow he is not surprised by the interior.

greystone doesn't seem to care for it one bit as he tracks dirt all over the pristine floor and leads him towards a gilded staircase. he's still holding on to zephirin, even though he's certain that his injuries are not that severe, that can more than walk on his own.

still, he lets himself be led along a hallway, then two, until they stop before a plain looking door. greystone opens it with familiar ease.

zephirin wagers those are his personal quarters, for they certainly lack a majority of the frivolity and gaudiness of all the riches in the main hall. the space is sparsely furnished, more practical — the bed is still ridiculously large, but it looks more functional than decorative; there's a writing desk, a chair and a small, velvety sofa to the side; the fireplace smoulders with still dying embers.

greystone carefully deposits him on the bed, mindful of his ribs, "stay here for a moment, i'll be quick."

zephirin does not know how to answer, so he stays silent and looks at the carpet as the other elezen leaves the room.

this is — a beyond strange situation.

the fight itself was a surprise, but not an unprecedented one. many of his fellow recruits had been often times… _dissatisfied_ with being bested by one such as him — a man of smaller statute than them, younger, a no one with no ties. his father may have been a knight but he was no nobleman neither in life, nor in death; his corpse probably still rots somewhere out in the highlands, or is maybe even frozen in time on a field somewhere — they never told him and he never went looking.

it's the insults they spat at his mother that sting now, more than his split lip or bruised ribs.

he remembers her beautiful and gentle, often playfully chasing him around the house, laughing, eyes green like spring, twinkling with delight, with love. he remembers her as she left, too, her face shadowed and a hood pulled up high over her head, fleeing into the cover of night. 

they never found her and he never went looking.

when greystone reenters the room, it is a blessing — zephirin's thoughts stray.

there is a small box in his hands, and inside it rest what looks to be medical supplies. he sets it on the bed and wordlessly brings up a warm, wet cloth to zephirin's face, to wash away the dirt and dried blood. 

"you needn't—" the words get lost somewhere along the way as zephirin cuts himself off with a sharp hiss. it stings. 

and here is the most confounding part of it all — greystone's timely arrival, his unexpected help, and now this: inviting zephirin into his own home, his own _chambers,_ treating zephirin's wounds with a steady hand.

he does not know what to make of it, how to repay such a kindness. it is not one that has been extended to him before.

ser bourbagne of the ward sometimes observes the temple knights in their training, stern and solemn. he has few words to spare for them in general, but he has made remarks about zephirin's swordfighting on more than one occasion, satisfied with the displays. that attention is enough to breed contempt from the other knights, eager as they all are for approval from their peers. 

his acquaintances among the ranks are not many, and the scornful words spat his way are a common enough occurrence he has learned to shrug off. it's gotten worse, recently, with how quickly zephirin is rising through the ranks at his age, even the lord commander taking note of it.

"did you hit your head as well? your expression looks rather pained," greystone's tone is half concerned, half playful, and the familiarity startles zephirin when he must be barely a stranger to him.

"no, i merely—not that i am ungrateful, that is, but we are not exactly well acquainted and—"

"and you were attacked, nearly _murdered_ in an alley near my home; it's the last i can do to offer you my help." he sounds almost casual about it, even if there is an underlying tone of anger in his words; aimed at the three men currently freezing outside most likely. “you still have to tell me the full story, you know." 

he dabs the cloth at zephirin's face one last time and takes a step back; puts one hand on his waist in an almost expectant fashion. zephirin blinks.

"if it's an introduction you desire, it is my pleasure to make your acquaintance. i am haurchefant greystone of house fortemps, though i'm sure you're already well aware." the man does a ridiculously exaggerated bow, a wink at the end of it.

and he is correct, for who doesn't know the story of fortemps' infamous only bastard son, who looks nothing like the count and everything like his mother; the story of how his bravery solidified the bond between houses fortemps and haillenarte, how he is a glowing image of what a knight should be, righteous and determined. 

there's the other rumors that snap at his heels, of course — borderline insubordinate when it comes to questionable orders, far too open to outsiders and their views, nearly heretical in his open mindedness, though that is often said about those of house fortemps. zephirin has seen him spar with one aymeric de borel on occasion, the two of them clearly fast friends. he has also seen him drag a reluctant looking knight dragoon to their sparring sessions, the three of them sure to make a spectacle of it.

but he's a good man, zephirin feels like. he's like to believe so.

"zephirin de valhourdin, at your service," he says, soft, something warm rising to his cheeks at the look in greystone's eyes.

"splendid! now that we're on first name basis, ser zephirin, i'd ask you to please undress so i may take a further look at your other injuries."

the incredulous look zephirin gives him is the first time he makes haurchefant laugh.

it is not the last.

* * *

it happens without him noticing at all — a small detour added to zephirin's nightly excursions, a new partner to match his sword against in practice matches, a companion for those late hours of the evening to share quiet words with. he had been reserved, at first, not used to such openly expressed friendliness, their conversations somewhat stilted and full of zephirin's uncertain silences.

but as the meetings and conversations became numerous over the weeks and months and years, was a camaraderie, a friendship forged. and friends they are, he knows this now, has known it in the years that followed after the one fateful encounter near the manor what feels like so long ago.

it feels sacred, almost, this companionship they've built, the trust and respect they share.

they are knights and they serve the holy see before all else, and duty sees fit for them to fight by each other's side. it happens once, twice, many a time, when they prove victorious on the field again and again. they've seen each other wounded countless times and it becomes something of a ritual between them, treating each other's injuries, sharing silence to mourn the fallen, whispering dreams of a better future, of healing.

in the end it is so easy, it happens so seamlessly, that when haurchefant greets him with a smile one day, beaming— 

it's a new feeling is all.

zephirin feels a small smile turn up the corners of his mouth as he lays down his sword, leaning on it as haurchefant approaches him, an envelope in his hand. he looks positively radiant, blue eyes twinkling with delight, his hair even messier than usual, as if he's ran his hands through it multiple times. his excitement is nearly palpable.

zephirin raises a questioning brow and shifts his weight, his stance more open.

"would you like the good news now or after i've invited you to celebratory drinks?" haurchefant asks with barely restrained delight.

"we're celebrating, are we?" zephirin's voice comes out as dry as he can make it, but full of fondness regardless. he's never been able to truly keep his emotions from bleeding into his words, not when haurchefant is concerned.

"until dawn, i promise you," haurchefant says confidently as he takes a step closer, presenting the paper to zephirin. he doesn't get even a glimpse of the text before haurchefant continues, "before you stands the new acting commander of camp dragonhead, my friend!"

"you're—promoted?" zephirin stumbles over his tongue in his surprise. _you're leaving?_ he does not say, as something heavy and unwilling settles in his gut along with the brightness that blossoms, anchoring him to the spot. 

he does not know what expression he wears, what shows on his face, but it must not be so bad, if haurchefant is smiling at him so.

"the official missive arrived this morning, though it's been certain for a long time now, to be honest," he says, his tone casual.

he has not mentioned a word of this to zephirin.

zephirin should have probably figured it out on his own — house fortemps controls their biggest outpost in the central highlands, that's common knowledge, and often employing the services of mercenaries and adventurers to help defend their borders requires a certain level of charisma and cunning, lest the opportunistic vultures empty their coffers with ludicrous demands for rewards.

and haurchefant is — exactly the person for the position. there could be no one else, both artoirel and emmanellain fortemps seemingly lacking in comparison.

zephirin remembers hearing de borel exclaim once, after one of their many spars, _no one in this city can truly resist your charms, my friend,_ as he swayed unsteadily after an unfortunate blow to the head. haurchefant had fretted and zephirin had not said anything, merely observed in silence next to the knight dragoon, who'd looked less than pleased with them both.

but haurchefant greystone is easy to like and to trust, worst of all because he truly is deserving of it. dragonhead would be good to him, zephirin thinks, with its many people and faces and the constant bustle, the adventure. it's something haurchefant has always wanted, a life more suited to him than skirmishes with the dravanians and hunts for dragons.

it's also nearly a full day's ride away from ishgard, his mind reminds him unhelpfully, as he thinks about his closest friend leaving. ishgard has always been his home and he loves the city dearly, but just for a moment he is certain it will be somewhat colder from now on, irrational as it is.

"i couldn't imagine a better commander than you," zephirin hears himself say after what feels like a moment too long, but the words are honest. "tis truly a reason to celebrate — though perhaps not so early before noon?"

the way haurchefant laughs sincerely and almost leans against him is dangerous, an arm around zephirin's shoulder before he can even finish the question. he turns his gaze to him with a look that's pure joy and mischief mixed together, something reckless. he leans in closer as if to whisper and, with something like surprise, zephirin notices they are almost of an even height now, haurchefant no longer towering above him. 

it makes a spark flicker in his gut, this realization, and oh, it is dangerous indeed.

"pray forgo your strict regimen for once and indulge me, will you, dearest zephirin?" 

zephirin sends a fleeting prayer to the fury, cursing his damnable self in that instant,

and says yes.

* * *

it is at the end of the day, a handful of moments before what must be midnight, that zephirin makes his first mistake.

_(admittance)_

or, more accurately, the first mistake he will be aware of. when he looks back he will realize it is nothing more than a single one in a string of hundreds, of maybe even _thousands_ of stray acts that lead him down a path to this.

there is an unfamiliar tug in his chest, a twitch in his fingers he has to steady, a stutter in his heartbeat, and for a moment he has to wonder if he's drank too much, if it's all the wine that's making him feel like there's fire burning under his skin, an urge he refuses to acknowledge telling him to _do_ something. 

it's with mounting dread that he realizes no, it is not the drink.

he is usually better than this.

worse is when haurchefant laughs, aglow by the fire and painted in warm colors, _inviting_. he'd been telling an anecdote about some thing or another, a story about de borel and wyrmblood doing something incredibly inappropriate maybe. zephirin has to wonder when he stopped paying attention to the words and only listened to the cadence of haurchefant's voice, lilting in the low light, filling the space between them with warmth. he laughs and zephirin feels the tug of a smile pulling at his lips in response. 

"tis most unfortunate they were called to duty in the highlands," haurchefant says as an afterthought, swirling the wine in his cup absentmindedly. then he turns his gaze to zephirin and it is something hooded, unfamiliar in the way it is enticing, "full glad am i that i have you for company, dear zephirin. fury knows francel is too young to drink, and i would have been terribly lonely otherwise."

"perish the thought. young haillenarte will become a good man, hopefully without any of the vices we share," zephirin answers, pointedly ignoring the satisfaction that burns low in his gut at the comment, pleased, preening; he lifts his cup just to have something to do with his hands.

but oh, what vices those are — indulging in alcohol the last of them all.

zephirin is aware, in a distant type of way, in a way he has not given any thought to purely out of fear what it may lead to, he is aware that many of their conversations border on heresy, some even going beyond it — when the holy see demands more of its people than they can offer, when the sacrifice is too great and brings them naught but a hollow victory at the cost of too many lives that could've been spared, when righteous anger burns in zephirin’s chest at the sight of the wounded and ailing, the half-starved orphans in the brume with contempt in their eyes and a hatred for more than just the dravanians—

zephirin abruptly turns his head, averting his eyes to banish the thoughts. they have no place here.

he finds haurchefant looking at him instead, a curious expression on his face.

“i was not aware you possessed any vices, seeing as how you almost live at the cathedral.” haurchefant’s voice comes out teasing, but it sounds more like a question than a statement. he rests his cup at the wooden table and rises, stretching in a sinuous curve as he goes. 

the fireplace is not even four steps away and yet zephirin cannot tear his eyes away as haurchefant goes to throw more wood in the fire, skin lit golden by the flames. 

it’s been something of a problem, how often he finds himself thinking of haurchefant, how he looks forward to the time spent together, to their late night visits at the vigil and their quiet conversations, to the warmth of fortemps manor that has grown more familiar than his own quarters.

(it should be concerning.)

((it is.))

(((when he wakes alone on cold nights, sweating and aching, chasing after the remnants of a half-remembered dream, phantom touch against his skin and a familiar voice whispering sweet, damning words in his ears; his name falling reverently from kiss-swollen lips, blue eyes alit with desire, looking at him, _asking—_

oh, fury, is it more than just concerning then.)))

zephirin watches as sparks fly, haurchefant raising an arm reflexively. he sways on his feet slightly, having drank at least double what zephirin has — his cheeks are flushed a rosy pink from it. he lands back on the sofa with a soft thud, his face nearly too close to zephirin’s. he blinks in confusion for a moment, clearly having misjudged the distance. it lasts for all of a second before he's laughing softly at his own clumsiness, moving to accomodate more space between them, an apology on his lips zephirin does not hear.

he does not move at all, frozen on the spot, because in that instant there had been only one thought, clear as bell in his mind—

_(i want to kiss him)_

and zephirin feels the air leave his lungs. 

this, he cannot make himself forget. 

this, he cannot deny, cannot tell himself is merely a fleeting dream with no meaning.

"tell me then, what vices have you?" haurchefant's voice is curious, quiet; a soft murmur as the hour turns past midnight and the fire crackles pleasantly in the silence. he is half draped across the sofa, his body relaxed, long limbs stretched languidly across the cushions. his stance is open and there is no maliciousness behind the question, yet zephirin tastes ashes on his tongue.

he looks at half-lidded eyes full of warmth, sparkling with gentle care and affection, genuine, at the soft smile across haurchefant's lips, so familiar, one he has seen a hundred times before, and he feels a wild rush in his veins, something full of _want_. it has been making itself known more and more with each day, each time he looks at haurchefant, but now it feels asphyxiating, demanding,

_tempting—_

and zephirin thought he has known temptation, known it in the hesitation on the battlefield, weighing the lives of men against the necessity of victory, known it in every dark corner of ishgard's many failings, but no.

no, that is a pale comparison to the sight before him, the feeling that claws at his chest like a wild beast, demanding to reach out a hand and _touch_ , soft skin under his fingertips and warmth against his lips and _would he taste of wine, i wonder—_

zephirin’s heart beats an erratic staccato against his ribs, one so loud he's almost certain it is audible in the quiet between them.

"that is between the fury and i," zephirin hears himself answer, as if from far away.

it almost makes him laugh in its absurdity. the fury? she knows nothing of this. zephirin would die before he would speak of it, before he would admit to thinking of it.

"oh, come now, no need to be shy around me, dear zephirin!" haurchefant pulls himself up into a more upright position, one arm stretched out on the backrest, fingers tantalizingly close to zephirin’s hair. every word is a string of his inhibitions snapped. “tell me of at least one? i promise to tell you one in return.”

it is not a good deal in any way, zephirin knows this, knows that any answer he gives would only serve to condemn him and any answer he receives would feed the thing between his ribs, gluttonous and starved. he should keep his peace and change the topic, maybe even find his way home as the hour grows later by the moment, but instead—

“what would you have me confess?” his voice comes out breathless, as if ensorcelled by something otherworldly.

“i get to choose? how very generous of you.” haurchefant grins, and it’s just on the edge of wicked, a different type of recklessness in his voice that betrays just how much he has had to drink. 

this is a perilous game, for both of them.

zephirin already regrets it, praying mutely to the fury for salvation in the instant before haurchefant continues, serious, 

“have you committed the grievous sin of kissing anyone?”

there is a second that passes in silence, only a second and no longer, but it feels like a small eternity. zephirin tries to arrange his face into something acceptable and dignified, clearly unsuccessfully as haurchefant starts laughing goodnaturedly, leaning into his space slightly too close, delighted and relaxed as can be.

“pray forgive me, tis just so amusing to see the faces you make sometimes,” he trails off sheepishly, motioning vaguely with his hand near zephirin’s head.

then he reaches up just slightly, just enough, and tangles his fingers among the blond strands absentmindedly. his nails scape against zephirin’s scalp gently, the barest hint of pressure, and zephirin stands very, very still, lest any movement he makes be his undoing.

“no.”

“hm? no? now that’s a shame.” haurchefant twists a lock around his finger, eyelids falling almost shut. he looks tired, all of a sudden.

 _mayhap all the wine has finally caught up to him_ , zephirin reasons, and makes to stand up.

“this conversation would be better continued another time, my friend,” he says, reaching out a hand for haurchefant to take without thinking. the bed on the other side of the room feels impossibly distant. zephirin promises to himself to bring haurchefant to it and make the trek to his own quarters in the pillars. the cold should help him clear his head.

it takes a moment before haurchefant takes his hand, a moment in which he just looks at zephirin as if trying to divine the answer to some great question.

"would you like to?"

he asks it so quiet, zephirin tells himself he has to have imagined it, a wistful invitation that can exists only in fantasy. he does not answer, pretends to have not heard, to not acknowledge the offer.

there is no place in ishgard for what they court.

haurchefant takes his hand and zephirin pulls him up. they stumble, both much too close, and zephirin allows himself this one indulgence — a hand on the small of haurchefant's back as he gently leads him towards the bed. his shirt is rumpled and the fabric is soft beneath his ungloved palm, warmth seeping through. zephirin imagines it will leave a brand if he lets himself linger too long.

"tis beyond late; you should rest," he says instead, tone measured, heart hammering away in his chest regardless of his best attempts to silence it.

"oh," is all haurchefant says in response. 

_oh,_ and that’s that.

crossing the distance is traitorously easy.

haurchefant falls ungracefully on the bed with a _thump_ , hair spread messy like a silver halo around his head, skin flushed pleasantly, eyes fluttering shut, and he looks—

divine, zephirin would say, if it weren't sacrilege and they could be allowed such things.

"t’was rather a lot of wine, was it not? how unbecoming of a commander.”

“you have not yet departed,” zephirin counters. it is a hollow reassurance for them both.

“no, but soon. within the week, if preparations are swift.”

zephirin had purposefully avoided the topic, avoided asking any details the entire day they had spent together, walking across the streets as if for the last time. as soon as haurchefant says the words a weight presses against zephirin’s heart, nearly crushing in its intensity. 

camp dragonhead is not impossibly far, he knows this, but he also knows of how strained haurchefant’s relationship with the count is, how he skirts on a veneer of politeness whenever they cross paths, the many arguments they pretend do not take place, and — dragonhead would be a good reason to not come back for a long time.

selfishly, zephirin wonders if he will be missed.

he turns away and goes to grab his coat before he can start dwelling on the thought in earnest. it would bring him nowhere good.

there is a noise from behind him, startled and surprised, and when he turns to look haurchefant is half-sitting up, leaning on an elbow, an incredibly fond expression of exasperation on his face,

“how many times must i tell you to stay the night before you stop trying to leave? you know you are always welcome, zephirin.” 

the words melt on zephirin’s tongue like sweet honey, rich and heavy, heady with promises of things he is too cowardly to ask for. 

he considers for a moment — they've shared cots in camps, when the winds were merciless and the cold even more so, and in staying it would be nothing but another repetition, so late into the night as it is, too late to prepare a separate room. but here, they wouldn't be soldiers, knights of the fury; they wouldn't be freezing in their armor, cold, frigid metal against chilled skin. 

no.

it would be worse.

zephirin imagines the warmth of the blankets, plush cushions, rich fabrics, and—haurchefant, there, so close, skin bare and just within reach, nothing but a sleep shirt and a handful of ilms between then. it would be laughably easy to reach out then and sate the curiosity in his mind, to learn how soft haurchefant’s hair would feel between his fingers, the feel of his skin against his palms, engrave it all into his memory so he can never forget.

zephirin sighs heavily, defeated, already dropping the coat back to where it was, because—

it would be easier to beg for forgiveness for his sins afterwards than try to deny himself this, is all.

he stays the night.

(he stays as long as his consciousness allows him, which is not as long as he would like.

unbearable guilt and a deep, gnawing fear weighing on his breast are his only companions as he leaves before sunrise, quiet, haurchefant still fast asleep. it is not a sight he will ever allow himself forget.)

* * *

it is with little fanfare that haurchefant departs, not even a handful of days later. 

so little, in fact, that zephirin does not hear of it, does not even get to say a farewell before his friend has already left the city. 

he learns of it from a report, indirectly, as knights gossip among each other of an unexpected battle near the steel vigil the day before, how dragonhead's new commander had led the soldiers, fought along them bravely. they speak well of him; haurchefant of the silver fuller. 

zephirin has half a mind to ask them to tell him all they know, but decides against it.

he decides to send a letter instead.

(too many crumpled drafts later, zephirin concludes it maybe means something, that haurchefant didn't even say goodbye before leaving.

he replays their last evening together again and again and again,

and regrets.)

* * *

life continues, as does the war. 

(as do its horrors.)

the days blur together endlessly and whatever words zephirin might have once wished to send get lost among the snow and ice that envelop coerthas. it feels as if the cold of the land is seeping permanently into his skin, an ever-creeping frost he cannot be rid of, the warmth of a fire not even scraping the desolace he carries inside.

zephirin gets promoted in the field; receives commendations for brilliant use of strategy and outstanding skill in routing out heretics from their hiding. he tallies every man lost and prays for their passing each night. 

it is one of the few comforts they can afford. 

the heretics, too, he prays for — especially the ones so utterly misguided they resort to consuming dragon blood, becoming misshapen monsters themselves. it is a horror to witness every time, and he wonders what faith it is that drives them, that demands of them such unspeakable acts. he hopes they can find penance in halone's halls, forgiveness for their mistakes in life.

when the holy see sends summons for him to return, he goes. the relief of returning home to no one expecting him is bittersweet.

in ishgard, he is promoted again to a temple knight commander, and he carries the title with pride, diligent and dedicated to his duties with an unmatched fervor. he leads the men well. handeloup jokes once, that he will be surpassing them in no time, and something accomplished and gratifying wraps itself tight around his ribs. 

zephirin hopes his father is proud.

* * *

except—

except—

at the crux of it all lies this:

saint reymanaud's cathedral is sanctuary to many who seek the fury's guidance, who confess their doubts to Her in the hallowed halls, and zephirin is familiar with every stone in it, having spent hours upon hours in prayer and contemplation there. his visits are as regular as he can make them, but sometimes they stretch long into the night, until the candles have dimmed and the chapel has gone dark. it does not matter regardless, because he would know his away around it blind.

it is on one such evening, that he is here again, this time alone into the small hours of the night, the last of the other visitors having left without him even noticing. even the usual guards by the door have retired for the night, leaving the hall empty .

he's been coming more often as of late, restlessness and a persistent inability to sleep leaving him agitated, unbalanced. here, he comes in hope of finding some semblance of peace, of calm.

the tall statue of the fury looks down upon him with her marbled gaze, cold and resolute and unmoving. it feels like a brand on his skin instead of the usual comfort, as if she is judging him for all his failures — for every life lost, every life wrongfully taken, every weakness he has tried so hard to root out and yet always falls short. it is rare for doubt to consume him so, but recently…

recently, they've lost many, to the dravanians, to the heretics and to the cruelty of winter. it is not the first time that zephirin prays for the salvation of the less fortunate, but it is the first that prayer feels futile. it has been difficult, bearing it alone.

it is as he sits there, half hidden in the shadows, still and quiet, that the doors open and then close, a single form walking in before the dim light fades. there is the faint clang of heavy plate armor, and zephirin spots a flash of white and blue in the dark. 

the lone knight walks forward, steps loud and echoing in the silent hall. he stops at the fury's feet and kneels down, reverend, almost as if in a trance. zephirin sits frozen, unwilling to move and reveal himself, half-hidden in the shadow of one of the pillars. there is something heavy and oppressive in the air now, an enveloping unease surrounding him from all sides.

"o, halone, hallowed fury, hearken to my prayer," the knight begins, his voice shaking with something almost like fear. and it's stunning in itself to hear this, for speaking out loud in the cathedral is nearly forbidden; the fury can hear your thoughts and—

"forgive me this transgression, but your humble servant is in dire need of wisdom and guidance."

zephirin swallows. that voice, it sounds reminiscent of—

"i fear i have seen—i doubt—it is so that—" he stumbles over his words, each of them spoken as if it's a hot coal, painful to get past his lips. he seems to steady himself with a shaking breath, and then:

"the archbishop consorts with servants of chaos, with the _paragons!_ i have seen it and heard it! they speak of sacrilege, of a ritual, and i fear his eminence has fallen prey to their corruption." the words are spoken quickly and harshly, as if that would ease their weight somehow.

zephirin does not breathe, does not move an ilm. he listens to the very reverend archimandrite of the heaven's ward pray and pray and pray, and does not allow himself to think about what it means. he sits still as the statue before them and waits.

and waits.

and waits.

when the archimandrite leaves, it feels like it has been hours. zephirin waits a moment longer and then very carefully, very quietly, makes his way as well.

that evening, so late it might be considered morning, zephirin writes a letter and immediately burns it after.

the repercussions if it is discovered weigh too heavy for him to bear.

 _not yet_ , he thinks and makes plans.

* * *

on a rare sunny day, at exactly noon, the lord commander finally retires after an honorable life of service to the holy see. 

there have been speculations and endless rumors about this moment for years, and zephirin attends the ceremony along with the other temple knights, nervous energy among all of them, a single question on their minds. he both dreads and expects this.

soon enough, they have their answer.

de borel gets appointed.

zephirin does not.

it is a surprise and a disappointment.

deep down, on some level, he knows that aymeric is the better option, maybe — he is sympathetic as well as ruthless when he needs to be; has proven himself to be charismatic enough to be a commander and negotiator both on and off the battlefield, and truly, there is no other better suited for the title among them. he will lead them well, so driven and full of hope for the betterment of ishgard.

that is not to say it does not sting bitter like failure regardless, the taste of something vile at the back of his throat. zephirin knows his shortcomings, his less than ideal background, his inability to turn heads with a single look like aymeric does, graceful and elegant and beautiful. he's made his peace with it long ago, but hope is an impossible thing to smother, especially when he had been so _sure—_

the problem is that all his carefully thought out plans crumble like a house of cards in the wake of this unexpected turn of events.

he celebrates the occasion as much as he is able, exchanging polite words with aymeric when he manages to catch his attention for a moment, offering congratulations, albeit half-hearted, before he has to depart again, swept away by other officials. for this, zephirin does not envy him.

how fortunate, then, that not too long after, ser bourbagne extends to him an offer he cannot refuse.

the heaven's ward — it seems the fury has seen fit to grant him a blessing in spite of everything.

* * *

shortly after aymeric is appointed lord commander, ser vaindreau de rouchemande’s resignation from his positon as very reverend archimandrite of the heaven’s ward is announced publicly. 

the archbishop elects zephirin as his successor. 

the man himself is conspicuously missing during the endeavor — zephirin has to stop himself from flinching when the archbishop spins a tale of a pilgrimage to find peace in his old age.

under normal circumstances this would have been the greatest honor imaginable: a place at his eminence’s side, a sacred duty of highest importance. now the title tastes like bile on his tongue, made foul and rotten by what he has unwittingly learned.

the ceremony is quick.

if zephirin averts his eyes and has to stop himself from flinching when the archbishop bequeaths him his new blade, he hopes it is blamed on nerves and the cold, not the emotion roiling in his chest, too large for him to reign in in its entirety.

“rise, ser zephirin.”

zephirin does.

he looks upon the archbishop and hopes the contempt in his eyes is not clear to see, either.

* * *

in the end, there is only one choice he can make.

* * *

the stables are quiet. 

the birds are all asleep at this hour of the night, the one lone guard dozing near the gates, clearly not on the lookout for any intruders, lest of all expecting one. it is a blessing.

zephirin moves swiftly, making sure to make no noise, leave no trace. he finds his target easily enough — she rouses at the first touch, a small, confused _kweh?_ the only sound she makes before she sees him, how tense he is, how clearly on edge. 

she immediately quiets.

"my apologies for the disturbance so late," he whispers to her, leading her to stand, throwing a saddle over her back as gently as he can. they've no time to spare.

their birds are smart as a general rule, but she has always been too clever for her own good, accompanying him and haurchefant on many occasions. her eyes narrow and she lowers her head, pressing her face against his hand in an unmistakably reassuring gesture. then she lowers slightly so he can climb on, and doesn't say a word, patient.

zephirin hopes he's worthy of this kindness — it might be the last time he receives such.

"to dragonhead." he whispers into black feathers, low enough only for her to hear.

she flies, swift and silent.

fury willing, they’ll make it before anyone notices zephirin’s absence.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haurchezeph.....TWO!!

haurchefant is a light sleeper, contrary to what emmanellain and anyone else might believe. ever since coming to camp dragonhead he has learned to be even more on guard, when every noise could be a prelude to an attack, every light knock on his door an emergency, men wounded or dead or worse.

but this? this is new.

an assassin sneaking in, perhaps? fury knows estinien has never been this silent whenever he crashes through the window, and aymeric at least has the decency to announce himself when he visits, much less now after his promotion to lord commander. his officers tend to knock loudly and briskly, announcing themselves immediately after.

whoever this person is, they open the door to his quarters with extreme care not to make a noise, their breath nearly inaudible in the darkness. but haurchefant is a light sleeper, and has been awake for bells regardless, unable to find rest for the evening, the events that must be transpiring at snowcloak occupying his thoughts incessantly.

he stays still instead, feigning sleep, one hand already around the dagger under his pillow, and waits. his eyes remain closed, so he listens.

the intruder approaches quietly, steps uncertain. they stop near the bed where he lies and wait for a moment too long, unmoving, the weight of their gaze on him. if this _is_ an assassin for whatever reason, they are doing a terribly poor job of it, haurchefant thinks. then he hears the rustle of cloth, what could be a hood being lowered and,

“i need you to let go of the knife and stay quiet, _please_.”

a shaking voice, wracked with something terrible, pleading; and haurchefant feels his next breath hitch, stick in his throat, because he knows this voice, has missed it every day for almost a year now, has imagined hearing it again so many times in so many different scenarios, but never like this — tethering just on the edge of shattering.

haurchefant loosens his hold immediately and snaps his eyes open, not making a sound as he turns his head and sits up. the sight that greets him is—

zephirin, frost at the tips of golden hair, pale as a sheet and his eyes wide, full of turmoil, with deep, dark circles underneath them, almost like bruises. he looks _ragged_ , gaunt and worn, as if he hasn't slept in days, his lips bitten raw, a hand half-extended as if to reach for haurchefant but never quite making it close enough.

haurchefant makes a noise low in his throat, wounded, and _moves_ without any conscious thought at all, rising and reaching for zephirin’s face, looking for injury, anything, anything to explain why he looks this hurt, why he’s here at all, when haurchefant remembers hearing about a promotion not even a full month ago, _very reverend archimandrite of the heaven’s ward zephirin de valhourdin_ , and—

and he almost recoils when his hands touch skin.

zephirin is freezing, colder than ice to the touch.

“please, there is no time, you have to listen—” he interrupts, gloved hands reaching for haurchefant’s, pulling him away.

“zephirin, what—?”

“i need your help to kill the archbishop.”

between the two of them, haurchefant has always been the one prone to dramatics and theatrics, often using exaggerated motions and grandiose words. it feels infinitely ironic then, that it is immediately after zephirin says the words that his legs give out underneath him and he stumbles into haurchefant’s arms, motionless.

and that's — a reunion he certainly never could have imagined.

* * *

it takes less than two bells for zephirin to stir. 

in that time, haurchefant carefully lays him on the bed, removing the half-frozen, wet clothes from him, covering him with as many furs and blankets as he can find. he strokes the fire into a roaring inferno to warm the room, and watches; wonders anxiously what madness must have transpired in ishgard to send zephirin flying across the night in the freezing cold, to think of committing _highest treason._

as he waits, he takes in every detail he can, zephirin's visage so unfamiliar like this, pained even in sleep. he commits to memory the slope of his nose, the angle of his jaw, the cupid's bow of his lips, the way his hair falls like spun gold around his head, now tarnished — haurchefant relearns him entirely anew, as if he had forgotten any of his features somehow. 

impossible, seeing as how often he'd seen him in dreams, but that is not of any import.

there is a noise from the bed, pained and confused, followed by a sharp inhale. zephirin sits up in one quick motion before groaning, clutching at his head in pain. haurchefant is at his side immediately, one hand on zephirin's shoulder, the other curling gently around his cheek, meant to soothe.

"i—how long has it been, they will notice—" zephirin begins, interrupted by a vicious coughing fit. 

haurchefant wordlessly brings a steaming cup of tea to his lips when it's over, carefully observing as zephirin drinks. 

he's shaking.

"be at ease, dearest. you're safe here." haurchefant puts all the reassurance he can muster behind the words, noticing his slip-up too late. if zephirin minds, he does not show it.

no, instead he looks at haurchefant for one long moment, a storm of anguish in his eyes,

and breaks.

the cup falls somewhere on the floor, forgotten, as zephirin reaches for haurchefant in one swift motion, arms around his shoulders, holding on with such intense desperation it leaves him breathless, fingers clutching onto the fabric of his shirt with a vice grip. he buries his face in the crook of haurchefant's neck, a wretched, pained sob falling from his lips. there is an unmistakable wetness against his skin, and haurchefant tenderly embraces him back, fingers tangling soft between the golden strands of his hair. 

it is cruel, haurchefant thinks, that this is how he learns the feeling of zephirin in his arms, how he fits against him and how it feels to hold him close, intimate — as he weeps himself raw, whatever struggle is weighing on his soul leaving him in tattered pieces.

haurchefant trails nonsense patterns across zephirin's back with one hand, the other tangled gentle in his hair, offering whatever comfort he can. 

they stay like that for an immeasurable amount of time.

it feels like an eternity has passed between them, when zephirin slowly untangles himself from haurchefant's hold, hands resting on his shoulders and then retreating lower, lower, until he finds haurchefant's palms and holds them like they are precious beyond worth. his eyes are clear, tears spent, and there's a set to his jaw, something determined in the way he holds himself. 

haurchefant braces himself for whatever will come next—

"the archbishop has fallen prey to the servants of chaos and plans to inflict unforgivable deeds upon the holy see and her citizens." his voice is monotone, empty of all inflection except the smallest, underlying thread of anger, simmering just below. 

—forces himself to stillness and waits— 

"he must face retribution before this madness can continue. please, " zephirin asks, "help me kill him."

—exhales.

"tell me everything."

* * *

were these better times, haurchefant would have rejoiced with all his heart to see zephirin again.

were these better times, he would have invited him to warm by the fire, to share a drink together; he would have asked so many inconsequential questions, 

_have you been eating enough? are you sleeping well? have you visited the vigil recently?_

_(that night, why did you leave before morning? before i could tell you—)_

were these better times, they'd have exchanged stories late into the evening as friends again, warm and content. zephirin would have stayed the night and haurchefant would have pretended it was enough, watching him leave the next day with his heart full to the brim with love, with new memories to remember each night.

these are not better times.

it takes zephirin so little time to tell the story, the skeleton of it — the unintentional eavesdropping, ser rouchemande's timely disappearance, the promotions, both of aymeric and of zephirin, so auspicious, so quickly one after the other, almost as if by design. was the previous lord commander privy to this sacrilege as well? haurchefant frowns when he thinks of the rumors that haunt aymeric like angry hounds — _bastard of the bishop_ _himself,_ they say _—_ and the entire ordeal feels more than wrong.

then, zephirin tells him of the ward.

it is a nightmare, haurchefant thinks, nearly recoiling with each word he hears. serving at the archbishop's side, becoming witness to horrors no man should — sermons and blessings that twist the mind, half of the heaven's ward already _enthralled_ , nothing but puppets to command and oh, what puppets those are — torturers and murderers more than knights, chosen for their strength and naught else. there are the hearings, the so called divine judgment that's nothing more than hubris; the many pleas that fall on deaf ears, the _ascians,_ it—

it is unforgivable, and there is no goal, no victory or hollow salvation that could justify it. 

"he aims to manipulate the people, feeding them lies and turning them against the heretics, when they—" zephirin cuts himself off, pulling at his hair as if to ground himself, something nearly hysterical bubbling up in his voice. 

"it was us, did you know? us who started this wretched war a thousand years ago, and we are paying the price for it still! we did this!" angry tears well in zephirin's eyes, sparkling like diamonds on his lashes, and haurchefant slowly, carefully reaches out, brushing them away with his thumbs, palms resting feather light on zephirin's skin, trying so hard to keep his own heartbreak at bay. 

distantly, he wishes his hands were softer, not so rough and calloused from the sword, from fighting, if only so he could offer zephirin some additional semblance of comfort, something more than what he has.

it is selfish to think of it, perhaps, when zephirin is sharing truths that shake the very foundations of their entire world and all they know, but he has never been much of a saint to begin with.

"hush," haurchefant says, leaning forward just so, until his forehead rests against zephirin's, the two of them sharing the same breath. "i believe you; every word you've told me, i believe it."

zephirin shudders against him, eyes haunted still, but now he looks like a weight has fallen from his shoulders. haurchefant wants nothing more than to pull him close and not let go, to keep him safe and sound, but he knows what is to come.

"you need not carry this burden alone," he whispers into the space between them and watches as zephirin closes his eyes, his next exhale shaken.

"i've doomed you by coming here. the others, _the_ _bishop_ , they will have noticed my absence by now. such behavior will not be forgiven; his eminence will most likely—bless me." he chokes on the words, their implications beyond dire. 

haurchefant feels his hold tighten just slightly, careful not to bruise delicate skin,

(he had watched, once, then twice, then many times more when they were knights; traced with his eyes whatever smattering of blues and purples was most recent on zephirin's pale skin, a siren's call for his hands he's had to refuse himself again and again,

 _you bruise like a peach,_ he'd said once, his tone strange to his own ears, a hunger there he had not quite been able to veil.

zephirin had blushed so prettily then, frowning but not denying it—

_that is not relevant to anything.)_

"you are not going back, not when such a fate awaits you. i will not allow it." haurchefant says as he drops his hands, voice leaving no room for argument — the risk of losing zephirin is unbearable to even imagine. “if you say the archbishop is intent on a summoning, there are allies we can call upon. you needn't bear this alone.”

it feels like a good omen when the first rays of sunrise peek through the window, illuminating zephirin with gentle strokes, a caress of warmth that paints him golden and luminous; verdant green eyes full of relief, his mouth slightly agape. he slumps forward, head against haurchefant's shoulder, and inhales deeply. it feels significant. his words come muffled against the fabric of haurchefant's shirt, but their tone and meaning is unmistakable.

" _thank you,_ " he says, and haurchefant can only nod around the things lodged in his throat, too many to count and too many to name.

_(they are all love,_

_a pattern etched into his bones with every beat of his heart, all for this boy he'd seen so many years ago, wielding a blade almost as large as himself with talented hands and an impossible grace; pale as moonlight, a red dusting from the cold painting him ethereal, eyes green like the spring they'd once had, now lost among eternal snow._

_haurchefant had seen him then, not even twenty winters of age himself yet, and thought, simply,_ oh.

 _what divine grace it had been then, to stumble upon him by chance, to extend a hand in friendship and watch him_ blossom _in the aftermath_ . _)_

when the knock at the door arrives, three rasps in quick succession, zephirin tenses against him immediately, body going taut as a wire ready to snap. the second that follows is heavy, charged with anticipation, until—

"my lord, we have need of you at the hall — the warrior of light has returned and awaits you."

a good omen. it must be.

haurchefant turns to zephirin and takes hold of his hand, unable to stop the smile from breaking out on his face,

"it appears fortune is on our side after all! there's someone you should meet, they can help." he rises carefully, a hand on zephirin's shoulder as he does. "give me but a moment and i shall return, i promise you."

zephirin swallows, the apple of his throat moving with the motion. he seems to make a decision, nodding just slightly.

"i trust you," he says, hoarse.

haurchefant feels radiant in the face of those words. in his mind, he swears to live up to them.

* * *

down in the main hall of camp dragonhead awaits a friend.

haurchefant makes himself presentable in a flash and, after a small nod from zephirin, goes down to greet her immediately. there she stands, radiant as ever, lifting his spirits at the mere sight of her. her coat is smattered with stray patches of snow at the hem, her nose and cheeks bright red, and she sneezes once, her ears twitching with the motion. fondness swells at his breast, one haurchefant imagines he would feel if he were to have a sister, perhaps.

"lysithea! full glad am i to see you returned, and unharmed at that!" he calls out, making sure to keep his voice steady. the reaction is immediate — her brows furrow and her mouth turns down at the corners, just slightly, all at the use of her full name. he hopes it serves to convey a measure of severity without words. "and alphinaud, of course."

the small elezen boy gives him a nod of acknowledgement in return, a stormy expression on his face. he seems somewhat disinclined to speak for once, clearly preoccupied with whatever is on his mind. he settles himself near the fire, limbs stiff, his garb still so unfit for coerthan weather.

"you return victorious, i hope?"

lysithea shudders from the cold, rubbing her hands together, "we found iceheart, for one. she had some…controversial things to say."

haurchefant can only wonder.

"nothing would bring me greater joy than to hear of your exploits in detail, believe me, my friend."

lysithea's expression shifts to something wary and calculating, a question in her eyes.

"however, an urgent matter has come to my attention and i'm afraid your help is most urgently required, as scions of the seventh dawn." haurchefant motions towards lysithea and alphinaud in a sweeping gesture. "please follow me, if you would."

the way to his quarters is not long. he knocks once when they reach the door, making sure his voice carries,

"may we come in?"

for a moment, there is no answer. haurchefant feels tense, a thousand scenarios running through his mind, each worse than the last, before there is a _yes,_ measured and calm. he breathes a sigh of relief and pushes open the door, lysithea behind him and alphinaud following a step after.

a strange feeling swells in his chest at the sight zephirin makes — clad in haurchefant's clothes, sat against the bedpost, blankets pooled around him. it sparks a deep longing inside of him, one he tells himself is never the right time for.

regardless, he is much recovered already, a flush returning to his cheeks, but still so pale, the travel during the freezing night clearly having taken its toll. he looks tired, and worn, yet his expression is guarded as he takes in the appearance of their new visitors critically, the solemn posture of a knight commander not betraying an ilm of vulnerability. 

had they more time, haurchefant would have offered a bath, a moment to compose himself after such a flight — alas, the fury is not so kind. the sound of the door shutting behind them feels deafeningly loud in the silence that follows.

"my friends, i would like to introduce you to the very reverend archimandrite of the heaven's ward, ser zephirin de valhourdin — the archbishop's right hand and personal guard." zephirin flinches at the comment, almost imperceptibly, but haurchefant has had years to look at him; he notices. 

"ser zephirin, these are alphinaud leveilleur and lysithea hi'iaka, scions of the seventh dawn. they are trusted allies and esteemed professionals in dealing with all matters concerning primals. i hope you'll be able to extend to them the trust you have shown me; i can confidently vouch for their credibility." he finishes, taking a stand near zephirin's side.

lysithea and alphinaud exchange uneasy glances.

"good to meet you, ser."

"matters concerning primals you say?" alphinaud asks, hand on his chin as he considers the statement, no doubt picking up on the implications. there is a tense silence that follows.

"aye." 

it is zephirin who speaks.

"i know not since when, but archbishop thordan the seventh has fallen prey to the false words of ascians. he intends to summon an entity to end the dragonsong war, thought not halone. another."

"the archbishop himself?!" alphinaud exclaims entirely too loudly and lysithea shushes him immediately. she frowns, ears going low on her head, but remains quiet.

"that is in no way a solution! and you are certain of this?"

"unfortunately." zephirin grimaces. "i have only recently come to serve at his eminence's side, but the previous archimandrite, he uncovered this ploy and—paid for it with his life before he could bring it to light, i suppose. now i am risking mine to attempt the same." 

"if what you say is true, the implications are dire indeed — the sheer toll on the land a summoning would have is unimaginable! coerthas is already aetherically strained from the calamity as it is, anything more would be beyond disastrous..." alphinaud trails off, pacing around the small room. 

lysithea spares him a glance before turning to zephirin, "if i may ask, how did you manage to learn of this without getting tempered yourself?"

she asks it not unkindly, her voice nothing but cautious, yet it makes zephirin tighten a grip around the blankets in his lap, knuckles white.

"tempered...is that what you call it? i'm afraid the bishop has already blessed at least half the ward, their minds not their own anymore." he scoffs, "not that they were the most virtuous of men to begin with."

zephirin raises his gaze and meets lysithea's eyes head on, shoulders straight, "the bishop spoke to me of a private meeting soon, something of great import he wanted to share. i abandoned my post the same evening and flew here in the hopes of escaping such a fate. no doubt his eminence has noticed my absence by now and i will be branded a heretic upon my return to ishgard."

haurchefant feels something sharp pierce his chest, a feeling of such intense dread it makes his next breath catch. he imagines zephirin tempered, unendingly, blindingly loyal to a man who would lead their entire people astray on the whisper of an ascian. he imagines not a spark of his zephirin left, no recognition or warmth in his eyes, nothing but cold devotion, _empty_. 

it is a thought more terrifying than any dragon.

"as for how i learned of this, i was unwittingly witness to the previous archimandrite as he prayed to the fury aloud, such blasphemous accusations. so lost was he in his distress he did not even notice me in the cathedral. i had planned to further investigate after my promotion to lord commander, but—"

"but you never got it. aymeric did." lysithea finishes for him, putting together the pieces of this story, perceptive as always, the explanation zephirin has given her seemingly enough.

"we must stop this." alphinaud declares sharply, done with his pacing. he looks at lysithea and his expression is set. "if he has taken to _tempering_ innocents, he must be made to answer for his actions."

"i agree, but you remember what a game of hoops it was to get the enterprise, don't you? i don't think they're just going to let us enter ishgard to confront their supreme leader, no matter how nicely we ask." lysithea crosses her arms, tail swishing in a smooth motion behind her.

"we could offer information on lady iceheart as a bargaining chip to secure a meeting, perhaps? your encounter with the goddess shiva would certainly be of interest, i would say." alphinaud muses. "do you think that could work?"

"nay, you err." 

"pardon?"

"the archbishop cares nothing for the heretics and their plans. they are merely a tool to be used to stroke the conflict between the two factions. i'm afraid whatever you think to offer is to be of no value."

zephirin's words give alphinaud stop. he seems to reconsider, trying furiously to think of something, any alternative to find their way in, when—

a knock on the door, two rasps in quick succession, and a disciplined voice after,

"lord haurchefant, i bring urgent news."

he blinks.

"lucia?"

he shares a look with zephirin, then lysithea and alphinaud, all of them confused. hadn't aymeric sent word to prepare the incessory for a meeting? does lucia mean to fetch them?

"what is it?" he calls out.

"i had hoped to share this face to face, but an urgent summoning from the archbishop has called lord commander aymeric back to ishgard. our meeting here will have to be postponed to a later time, for which i sincerely apolo—"

she does not get to finish the sentence before haurchefant is rushing forward and slamming the door wide open, his eyes wild.

"pray repeat that, aymeric received _what?"_

"a summon from the archbishop. he's on his way back to ishgard and—is that the archimandrite?!"

"no. perhaps. yes."

"my lord, what—"

"lucia, please enter the room, i promise to explain everything."

she gives him a bewildered look, her eyes jumping from lysithea to alphinaud to zephirin until she stares back at haurchefant, her expression suddenly closed off. haurchefant holds his breath, heart racing in his chest, because the _archbishop_ summoned aymeric, and that can only be a prelude to a catastrophe, but—

lucia takes a step.

haurchefant shuts the door behind her and breathes a sigh of relief.

* * *

in a very short amount of time, in three different places, three things happen:

in camp dragonhead, lucia junius learns of a coming betrayal of the highest order and an imminent danger to the lord commander. when she attempts to reach him via linkpearl, there is nothing but static.

in ishgard, aymeric de borel walks unsteadily up the steps to the vault, the teleportation spell having taken much from him — but the archbishop has called for an urgent meeting, and so, he goes, up and up and up.

in a cave hidden in coerthas' many mountains, ysayle dangoulain catches her breath and looks at the men waiting for her command. _it is too soon_ , she thinks, but she's already revealed herself. no doubt word has reached ishgard by now — with each moment they lose their chance. the great wyrm yet slumbers, but mayhap by the time they—

there is no more time to think.

she makes a decision.

"go," she commands, "i will join you at the gates."

* * *

in the end, they don't need much of a plan.

they divise one, of course, planning for as many scenarios as they can. time is short, and haurchefant takes the swiftest birds dragonhead can provide them.

("ah, that's how you got here so fast," he says warmly when he spots a familiar head of black feathers, hidden among their stables. a greatsword rests next to her, laid on the ground and half-hidden among the hay.

next to him, zephirin makes a noise. in spite of it all, haurchefant finds it in himself to laugh quietly, familiar fondness in his chest.)

together they set out towards the gates of judgement. 

alphinaud and lysithea seem unused to flying, though lysithea takes to it much better than alphinaud does. she seems downright _delighted_ by the experience, while alphinaud clutches to his bird, leaning low and his face drained of all color. lysithea laughs at the sight of him and the sound makes hope flicker warm at haurchefant's breast. 

she is a remarkable warrior, coming to their aid without a second thought, for which haurchefant is eternally grateful. so long as she remains by their side, he is certain they will overcome this trial, come what may.

on foot, the distance from dragonhead to the gates can be crossed in day. on chocobo back, it takes approximately half, if the weather is good and there are no blizzards. as they fly, haurchefant judges it would take them three bells, which still feels impossibly long, but they are not allowed the luxury of teleporting — it would mean leaving the scions behind and to do this, they are vital. 

thus, they fly.

it is roughly after the first that they hear the loud chime of church bells in the distance, ishgard in their sights — a warning of an approaching attack on the city itself. on the horizon, they see countless winged figures in the sky, lead by a single, enormous dragon.

this is the boldest the dravanians have ever gotten, daniffen's collar sure to hold any attempt at a direct invasion at bay. haurchefant wonders what their goal is, confounded by the futility of such an assault, when—

a flicker of light passes beyond the city, the steps of faith illuminated in a bright blue for a single instant. in that moment, with a sinking feeling of dread, he knows the wards have been dispelled.

"we must hurry!"

they spur their birds and can only pray to make it in time.

* * *

it takes so little for everything to fall into utter, godless chaos.

the gates of judgement are a wreck, now more a ruin of stone and masonry than anything they'd used to be before. the dragons descend swift and bloodthirsty upon the steps, countless swarms of them, a cacophony of wingbeats and screeches loud in the air. temple knights stand ready to meet them, ballistae loaded and dragoons perched upon the spires.

they arrive, and the fighting has already begun.

the birds they leave behind, making a mad dash across the stone bridge on foot. lucia runs ahead, haurchefant at her side, zephirin leading lysithea and alphinaud at the rear.

it is madness.

the beast at the head of this assault is massive, a dragon of truly enormous proportions, almost as wide as the entirety of the steps. it walks slow, each step making the stone tremble and shake. how they are going to bring it down, haurchefant does not know. he watches as it swipes once with a great claw, the force of the swing making the wind howl in anger. it is with a loud, earth-shattering crack that it tears down one of the lesser wards, then continues its slow march as smaller aevis and wyrms swarm around it, teeth bared and bloodied.

"we must stop this creature before it destroys the wards!" lucia yells amidst the chaos, her voice a beacon.

"have you any brilliant ideas as to how?!" zephirin growls from behind them, dislodging his blade from the fallen body of a flier, alphinaud safe at his back.

"we can fight, alphinaud and i, we—" lysithea begins, before the great dragon gives a deafening roar that leaves them all momentarily stunned, their ears ringing.

it all feels rather very bleak and hopeless, to be honest.

almost as if reading his thoughts, their salvation comes crashing from the heavens with a thunderous dive — drachen mail gleams in the sun and the wicked point of a lance embeds itself into the dragon's wing, nearly pinning it to the ground from the sheer force of the strike. the figure then _pulls_ viciously, leaping gracefully into the air for a second attack before the beast can recover.

"estinien!" haurchefant hears himself yell in wonder, even if it is impossible for the man himself to notice. he nearly flies through the air with intent, gae bolg at his side, armor staining red from the ferocity of his attacks, yet the dragon does not slow.

"lord haurchefant, take the scions and the archimandrite and _go_! i shall rally the knights and hold the ward here, you need to find aymeric before it is too late!" lucia commands, already ahead of them. 

it is the most logical plan, considering what they know might befall aymeric, but to simply _leave_ —

"we have the azure dragoon at our side once more, we will not falter! now go, please," in all their years, haurchefant has never heard lucia sound so.

it is with a heavy heart that he nods, holding her gaze for a moment longer before turning to zephirin. 

"we must away."

and so they go.

haurchefant takes the lead, sword and shield in hand, his stance defensive as he charges ahead. alphinaud recites a spell and a small, half translucent carbuncle appears at his feet, hopping on his shoulders before he follows after; lysithea by his side, ears low in distress. there is a sparkle near her head, the shine of a fairy he has seen before. it flies in a shower of white and teal glitter, wings beating furiously to keep up. 

and then, at the tail end of their quartet is zephirin, sword held in both hands, cloak bellowing in the wind as he keeps an eye on any incoming threats, any dravanian that would dare come too close.

they outrun the main force, leaving the great dragon to lucia and estinien and remaining the knights. up in the sky around them is nothing but mayhem, aevis sweeping in nearly too close, claws snapping. it lessens the closer they get to the inner gates, the fight having not yet reached that far and the wards still holding steady. it is as they cross the next one, the barrier of blue shimmering as they pass, that haurchefant comes to a sharp halt, stunned.

"is that—?"

"ser aymeric?!" alphinaud exclaims.

the fury must favor them this day, or so it seems. 

aymeric looks much the same as he did the day before, in his typical lord commander garb. there is no clear sign of any tempering or blessings or whatever else have you, yet haurchefant cannot truly be certain. he is giving out orders to a group of knights, the men quickly manning the cannons there in preparation, voice ringing clear over the commotion, his tone one haurchefant is familiar with when aymeric is present on the battlefield — driven, resolute, reliable. 

"ser aymeric, what are you—" alphinaud makes to approach him as he speaks the question, already a step forward, before lysithea extends an arm to grab his shoulder, keeping him from going any further.

"warrior of light? lord haurchefant?" aymeric looks puzzled at their appearance, clearly not expecting them. it lasts for all of a second before relief breaks across his face, radiant, "my goodness, what a blessing from the fury this is! that you would come to us in our most perilous hour of need, i am beyond grateful."

lysithea does not move, and neither does alphinaud, both of their faces tense with anticipation. from the corner of his eye, haurchefant sees that zephirin has lifted the hood of his cloak over his head, his knuckles white around the grip of his sword, prepared for the worst. aymeric does not appear to have noticed him yet, dismissing the men to their stations.

haurchefant feels a stone weigh on his chest and he allows himself one steadying breath before he must ask,

"aymeric, have you met with the archbishop already?"

"the archb—? my friend, is now really the time to discuss such matters?" aymeric's voice comes out reluctant, and the weight grows heavier.

"ser aymeric, please answer the question." alphinaud requests, the words verging on being a demand. aymeric takes a long look at him, then at haurchefant and lysithea, all three of them tense and awaiting whatever answer will come. his eyes fall to zephirin for a moment, just a step behind them, and his gaze narrows.

"no, we could only exchange pleasantries before the warning bells rang and i was called away to prepare our defenses."

it is palpable, the way all four of them nearly buckle under the force of their combined unease lifting.

"oh, thank the gods," lysithea sighs, her hold on alphinaud loosening. aymeric gives her a curious look, but does not press the matter.

"we should go, now is our best chance," zephirin whispers just loud enough for haurchefant to hear, "the vault will be empty of most the knights and—"

"what exactly is it that you are doing here, especially in company such as this?" aymeric interrupts, his gaze entirely upon zephirin's cloaked form. 

he must know.

"there are urgent matters that we, as scions, must address directly with the archbishop himself as soon as possible." lysithea speaks, her voice steel.

"urgent matters—? more urgent than the city being razed?!" aymeric asks, incredulous.

"unfortunately, yes." 

zephirin takes a step forward, one hand pulling down his hood in a swift motion, and his eyes are — a forest fire, a burning blaze, such intensity in them; his patience a taut line that has reached the limit of its endurance.

"this assault, ishgard shall withstand; this raving horde, her knights shall defeat, but whatever the archbishop plots? that shall bring us all to ruin!" his outburst comes quick, seeming to reverberate between the surrounding chaos. 

"i beg your pardon?"

"lord commander!" comes a sudden gasp from behind them, lucia's staggered form passing through the ward. "i heard reports you were here, the—"

she stops short as she takes stock of the situation between them. there is blood smattered in her hair, though it does not look to be hers. haurchefant takes a measure of comfort in that, even if it is small — aymeric looks like he's been dealt a physical blow, reeling from zephirin's words.

"you have to let them go, my lord." is what she says, her eyes piercing into aymeric. it is not a request.

"i—lucia?"

"if you bear any love for ishgard, you will let them continue on their path. you _must_."

a heavy silence stretches on for far too long, some nonverbal exchange taking place instead. whatever aymeric reads in their expressions, it is enough.

he acquiesces.

"i shall trust in you, my friends. do what you need."

they run.

* * *

amids the rush and the chaos, they have no time to show their visitors the sights ishgard has to offer. it is a pity, for haurchefant has often imagined the joy of showing lysithea the view from the last vigil, one so familiar and dear, full of fond memories. a pity, that her first impression of his dear city is of it under siege, that her purpose for being here one such as theirs, drenched in sin and deceit.

the steps to the vault feel endless.

an eternity passees in the span of minutes, their steps growing heavier the closer they get, until—

the tall spires and stained glass windows of the basilica are just beyond, and left unattended of all things. it appears zephirin was correct after all, all the knights called to the fray.

"there will be the ward, still." zephirin says as they halt in front of the massive wooden doors, his voice flat. haurchefant can read nothing on his face.

"be ready." 

and he pushes open the doors with both hands.

inside is — emptiness.

the halls echo ominously as they enter, their steps ringing across the marble floors in an almost haunting fashion. outside, the sounds of battle ring muted, so distant and faint as if to not be there at all. sunlight streams in through the stained glass in a kaleidoscope of colors, staining, as they make their way across the quiet hallways. 

it is beautiful.

it feels awfully, terribly wrong.

"we should aim for the upper levels, where his eminence would most likely be." zephirin says wearily, eyes narrowed and darting to every shadowed corner, expecting _something_.

yet they encounter no knights, no guards, no friars or priests, not a single soul.

"is this…normal?" lysithea asks, hesitant, as they climb another set of stairs and approach the inner sanctum.

"no. no, not at all."

everything falls apart in the courtyard, of all places. 

there, their quarry awaits them in a garden full of splendours, lush vegetation cultivated even in the ever-present winter that surrounds them. archbishop thordan the seventh stands almost peacefully above what looks to be an ornate coffin, deep in meditation or maybe even prayer. around him kneel eleven knights bearing the white and blue armor of the heaven's ward, their heads bowed low and hands clasped together. they form a semi circle around the archbishop, the entire ordeal looking suspiciously ritualistic. haurchefant swallows down his unease and forces his hands to steady.

"and thus, the wayward child returns to the flock." the archbishop opens his eyes and turns to face them.

 _has he always looked so?_ , haurchefant finds himself wondering as he takes in the old man's form — shriveled up in something beyond mere old age, a sheen over his eyes that looks unnatural in a disconcerting way. he tightens the grip on his blade, and waits. zephirin has made no move yet, and neither have alphinaud and lysithea.

"bringing outsiders to our most sacred of sanctums, no less; all with the intent of spilling righteous blood in these hallowed halls. i fear you have fallen beyond redemption, ser zephirin."

"who are you to speak of redemption, of righteousness, when you would defy it with your very actions?!" zephirin spits as he moves forward, blade drawn. there is no hesitation, no doubt, only a trembling anger in his voice, one shaped by betrayal haurchefant is just now beginning to feel.

"i have been told whispers of your inevitable treachery, and i had hoped with all my heart against it — a man such as yourself would have made a wonderful knight at my side, you could have seen such blessings, such revelations!" thordan raises his staff in a wide arc, before he brings it down gently against the stone with the quietest scrape of metal. "if i must make you see reason by force, then so be it."

he sounds almost apologetic as he says it. 

"you have to leave, _now_ , it looks like he's going to—" lysithea cuts herself off as behind the archbishop, the knights rise one by one.

their eyes are empty save for a glassy sheen of fanatical devotion, similar to the archbishop's own. the men move as if possessed, their movements synchronized. they lift the heavy lid off the coffin in a single motion, revealing—

nothing.

there is nothing inside.

"you are but one man, and these champions you've brought with you shall serve as nothing but a stepping stone in our ascent to paradise. now come, take your rightful place and rise as—"

thordan does not get to finish before zephirin is upon him, a fathomless fury burning in his eyes, blade gleaming dangerously in the light, almost as if aglow by the strength of his conviction. he is an incarnation of vengeance, of retribution, come to collect the dues of the sinful and the wicked, haurchefant thinks with equally growing awe and horror.

it looks so laughably easy, the way zephirin's blade embeds itself in thordan's flesh, tearing through cloth and skin with ease, piercing his chest right through the heart, seeping red, red, _red_. thordan's staff clatters to the ground with a loud clang in the following silence, his mouth open in surprise. then his eyes fall to the empty coffin and widen, betrayed. 

the knights behind him do not move, still, frozen.

"so this is how it is…" thordan chokes, arms limp at his side.

"everything we know has been built on a lie, on the bones of those sacrificed in its name, a lie you have perpetuated for far too long — no more!" zephirin twists the blade and _pulls_ , thordan's body slumping to the ground with nothing left to support it. "your paradise dies with you."

they watch as thordan's body dissolves into dust and disappears. 

* * *

(in the shadow of one of the far pillars, unseen, a white robed figure looks upon the transpiring scene with a blank expression, a single glowing eye held in hand. there is a flash of a red sigil, a swirl of darkness, and the figure disappears.

in the end, this interference won't matter regardless.)

* * *

later, there will be tumultuous days and countless sleepless nights ahead of them; there will be reforms and peace talks; there will be finding common ground and tearing down a thousand years of lies; there will be _ser aymeric,_ _speaker of the house of lords_ and _lord commander and first advisor zephirin de valhourdin._

later, the azure dragoon of ishgard will defeat the great wyrm nidhogg with the help of an adventurer who grows famous across the holy see and all of eorzea, a miqo'te woman who becomes a hero to countless. this will be an act of vengeance and salvation, an ending a life of madness and rancour, one that will be both celebrated and mourned.

later, after a long time, they will rebuild and they will heal.

now, however.

now, haurchefant pulls zephirin into the familiar warmth of fortemps manor late in the evening, leads him down familiar corridors to a familiar room, like so many years ago.

now, like then, zephirin sits silent on the bed, this time freshly bathed and dried, haurchefant next to him, the silence comforting.

now, there is no need for haurchefant to fetch a wet cloth and medical supplies, no visible injury for him to inspect — there is no blood on zephirin's hands anymore, just the barest shake from the consequences of his actions that remains.

a gentle hand rests on top of his and zephirin startles. he looks up into blue eyes, so clear and so warm, a cloudless summer sky to get lost in. it feels important, the weight of that gaze focused solely on him.

"it's alright," haurchefant says in the quiet between them, "you can let go now."

zephirin notices, then, the way his knuckles are white, his fists clenched. haurchefant's fingers slip between his, light and loose, untangling the terrible knot of tension he holds with a soothing motion. they are calloused and rough, zephirin notices too, and he wishes to learn how each and every mar and imperfection feels against his skin until he can recognize haurchefant by them alone, wishes to trace the feeling of them into his memory. 

it is—

there is a feeling, he recalls suddenly, when you've been cold for so long it's become part of you, a chilling numbness that burns until there is nothing else left, until every touch only hurts, hurts, hurts — that is a feeling he knows well, one he has carried with him day after week after month.

in the wake of it, sometimes, when fortune is kind, there is a safe haven to be found. then, warmth returns to every frozen part of you and instead of hurting everything turns _warm_ , euphoric, the frost finally thawing with each beat of your heart and you can relearn how to feel again, safe and unafraid.

zephirin remembers the first time, when a hand was extended to him and he found — exactly this, here; a home in the form of a person he's been quietly chasing after ever since. 

zephirin remembers the last time he felt warm, too: a late evening, wine sweet on his lips and a laugh he could almost taste, haurchefant so close he could reach out and—

"look at me."

zephirin feels fingers brush at his hair with care, sweeping the mess of bangs away to reveal his eyes. haurchefant tilts his head just slightly, the barest suggestion of pressure, and he obliges without a second thought, turning to meet his gaze. the hand remains featherlight on his jaw, cupping his cheek in a touch so gentle zephirin wants to weep from it. 

he wants with such a fervent desperation to lean into it, to let himself fall into this warm embrace and just _be,_ their duty and sins all forgotten, the entire world away with them too. he wants to lean forward until they share the same breath, until he can almost feel the softness of haurchefant’s smile against his own, until haurchefant leans forward to meet him halfway and they—

zephirin’s breath catches in his throat, something sharp and biting not letting it quite reach his lungs. haurchefant seems to notice and it makes an indescribable sorrow flash across his eyes, a forlorn thing that has no place being there.

“oh, dearest,” his voice is full to the brim with things zephirin does not trust himself to properly name, his mind so clouded by this desire it stains every part of haurchefant he sees, “you can let go of it all, i promise you.”

zephirin shudders.

he thinks, then, of how little it took to bring down the foundations of everything they knew, how it all fell apart within a single day, how it matters nothing now. he thinks of what he knows of himself, of what he has carried within him for so long, of how he has wanted and wanted and denied himself every time for years.

he thinks, and decides, _enough_.

zephirin exhales, and it is so simple, nearly effortless, to raise his hand in turn, to mirror haurchefant and tangle slender fingers in silver hair, the strands like silk between his digits. he leans towards him in a single motion, breath ghosting against haurchefant’s lips, and awaits for whatever fate it is to befall him.

a kind one, it would seem, because the surprise on haurchefant’s face lasts for all of a second before he almost topples them both over in his eagerness, his other hand wrapping around the back of zephirin’s neck and pulling him close, closer, until there is no more space between them left and— 

the first kiss is clumsy, one too hesitant and the other entirely too bold, an awkward press of lips more than anything. they sway lightly, haurchefant tilting his face just so, and the second kiss turns sweeter, gentler.

“zephirin?” haurchefant murmurs against his lips, and it makes him shiver pleasantly, the way his name sounds spoken like this.

haurchefant seems too impatient to wait for an answer, because he presses for a third kiss immediately after, and this time they do topple, zephirin’s head landing softly on one of the plush pillows. haurchefant follows after him without pause, leaving the lightest of butterfly kisses against his skin as he goes, little pecks as he holds zephirin’s face in his hands. he seems disinclined to stop now that he has begun and zephirin cannot find it in himself to speak yet.

“zephirin, dearest, what is—”

the rest of the question melts against his lips as zephirin goes for a fourth kiss, bolder now that he has not been met with rejection. it almost seems to work, until haurchefant pulls back with what is nearly a gasp, his breath labored. he looks at zephirin with intent, a storm whirling in blue eyes but it holds no coldness inside, nothing but sweet promises in it. still, he places the barest of ilms between them, not releasing his gentle hold, his thumbs brushing against zephirin's cheek in repeating motions that are more distracting than they should be.

"far be it for me to complain, my love, but pray tell me, what does this…?" haurchefant's eyes widen almost comically as the words register, the sentence left unfinished. his hands still, suddenly, as if he expects to be _reprimanded_ of all things, and it makes zephirin want to laugh.

"my love?" he echoes with a growing smile, a rush of warmth spreading wild through his veins like a blaze, hope and anticipation in equal measure.

and there it is, the rare flush high on haurchefant's cheeks, a beautiful shade of red that spreads to his ears and down his neck, disappearing below the collar of his shirt. zephirin wants to trace it, see just how far it goes.

"say it again. please." he hears himself say, and his own voice sounds unfamiliar, breathless now that all the things he's kept locked away are finally set free, butterfly wings fluttering with joy.

there is a moment of silence as haurchefant blinks at him in confusion, mouth open in a small o, before realization finally sparks.

"may i truly?" he asks in disbelief, not seeking an answer at all because he presses closer for another kiss, a fifth, this one slow and languid, saccharine sweet, affection bleeding from every part of it.

"my love, my love, my love, oh," haurchefant chants against zephirin's lips and the feel of it is intoxicatingly rich, something zephirin never wants to part with. there is a sound in response, one that is keen and breathy, entirely too obscene in its want, and zephirin realizes with a startle that it is coming from him. it makes haurchefant press closer, deepening the kiss until it feels nearly overwhelming, fingers tangling in zephirin's hair and then he's moving, straddling zephirin with a single motion.

he breaks the kiss but does not pull away, his eyes open, trained upon zephirin with such intense emotion held in them. it feels more important than anything zephirin has ever witnessed.

"how i have longed for this, you cannot even imagine." haurchefant sounds ruined, an admission so honest and raw it makes zephirin's heart beat wild against his ribs.

"you have?" the question is earnest, for zephirin is truly caught off guard. 

"for so long, my dearest; from the very start even," his voice is delighted, so bright and joyous zephirin wants to lose himself in it, like sunshine after months of darkness, "does this mean you…?"

now, to answer is easy.

"yes. yes, a hundred times yes."

a sixth, a seventh, and zephirin loses count of the kisses that follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing so much plot got too overwhelming so you have my apologies for the rushed ending ;--;
> 
> what happens to the msq after this? idk man, i didnt think that far, i only wanted them to kiss and then 10k of plot stood in my way so i winged it  
> what happens to the heaven's ward after this? they get ga bu'ed and after alisaie unlocks her anti-tempering beam maybe they get redeemed, idk, i havent thought about it, head empty only want haurchezeph smooch
> 
> ALSO THE WONDERFUL WOL IN THIS IS THE ONE AND ONLY [MISS LYS](https://twitter.com/clownkatt), lysithea hi'iaka!! please look at her, she is amazing!!! i feel bad for cheesing The Thordan Murder but also. i dont. have the energy to write a whole fight, idk how that would work out, i just wanted him Gone, but lysithea...we fucking stannn, pls give her lots of love .w.
> 
> THANKS FOR READING THIS BEHEMOTH OF A FIC, IVE NEVER WRITTEN SO MUCH FOR ANYTHING BEFORE AND I HAD LOTS OF FUN <3

**Author's Note:**

> I DONT KNOW SHIT!!! NOT A FUCK!!! I JUST WANT THEM TO LIVE AND KISS MAYBE, DONT LOOK AT ME, ITS ALL CHERRY'S FAULT


End file.
